by Sara Rosett
My thoughts traced through the names, making the connection. “Ronnie . . . it was short for Veronica, I bet.” I’d been looking at the springy grass under my feet as I thought, but now I looked up. “Mayhew was Veronica May, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Anna looked between me and her father. “R. W. Mayhew was Veronica May? The Veronica May who was in all the papers? Veronica May from Pikenwillow House?”
Dr. Finch nodded. “Yes, that Veronica May.” He turned to Shaw. “You’re familiar with the incident?”
The pixies at Pikenwillow House had caused a media sensation several years ago. It had begun when a young girl—Veronica May—and her friend took some photographs in the girl’s back garden. The photos showed pixies playing among the flowers. Veronica’s father sent them to several societies, including an organization interested in psychic phenomena.
The colonel frowned. “I don’t remember much of anything about it except it was a pack of nonsense. It was debunked years later, I believe.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” Dr. Finch opened the envelope that rested on his knee and removed a yellowed newspaper clipping. He handed it to Shaw. “After she recovered from pneumonia, Mayhew sent this to me. The two girls created the photographs as a joke. A prank. But her father saw the reaction to the photos and realized he could exploit them. Perhaps he was a believer in spiritualism and whatnot. Or maybe he was simply an opportunist. I think the latter is probably the correct description, but I’ve never met the man.”
Dr. Finch picked up his glass, tilted it so that the dregs of the drink ran across the bottom, then set it back down. “Whatever the case, Mr. May capitalized on the interest in the photos. I read up on the situation after Mayhew sent the clipping. Before the photographs were debunked, Mr. May became a speaker, traveling to lecture organizations all around England and even on the continent. He gave tours of his home and charged people fees to come and stay in the cottage at the bottom of his garden, where they could possibly see pixies if the conditions were perfect, or they could participate in séances he ran in his home.”
Shaw had screwed a monocle into one eye socket and skimmed the article, then passed the clipping to me. The headline read, Pixie Photographs A Lie! Paper Cutouts Says Daughter. I held the thin paper by the edges. “But the story fell apart when Veronica told the truth.”
Dr. Finch pointed to the newspaper article. “She described exactly how it was done. Debunked the whole thing.”
Anna leaned on the arm of the chair to read over my shoulder. “I don’t remember the details.”
I handed the article to Anna as Dr. Finch continued, “Mayhew told me she had reached a point where she couldn’t continue to defraud people. She contacted a reporter and described how she faked the original photographs. She traced images of pixies from a children’s book, added a couple of details of her own—hats and gloves—then used hat pins to prop up the cutouts among the flowers in the garden. She thought it was a great joke, but when her father latched onto it as a way to dupe people, she became more and more uncomfortable. Mr. May got ahold of a moving picture camera and made a film. Then he bought a projector and played the film of the supposed pixies.”
Dr. Finch waved a hand toward the far side of their garden. “At night, he projected the pictures of dancing pixies onto various bits around the garden—a shed wall, strategically placed white rocks, and a fountain base. Of course the images only lasted a few seconds, but apparently it was enough to keep the legend going with those susceptible to believing that sort of thing. He was making hundreds of pounds from each séance. He charged for daytime tours of the garden and even more for the overnight visitors who got to see his private cinema show. Mayhew said she couldn’t stand the deception anymore, and that’s why she revealed the truth.”
Dr. Finch took the newspaper clipping from Anna and replaced it in the envelope. “Veronica May had a vivid imagination and a talent for writing. While her father was making money hand over fist with the pixie legend, she threw herself into writing a book, a detective novel. Once she received an offer from Hightower Books, she made plans to tell the truth about the pixies to the newspapers and then disappear.” Dr. Finch handed the envelope to Shaw. “You’d better keep this now.”
Shaw nodded and tucked it into the side of his chair. “I gather she disappeared because she was afraid of her father?”
“Mayhew said her father would be furious when the article was published. She was frightened he’d harm her.” Dr. Finch cleared his throat. “She said her father had hurt her before.”
I couldn’t imagine having a father like that. “How shocking.” While my father was absentminded and often lost in his own world of research, books, and writing, he was kind and gentle. “And Mayhew’s mother, was she part of the deception?”
“No. She died when Veronica was born.” Dr. Finch reached for the whiskey decanter, poured himself another drink, then raised the decanter in Shaw’s direction. Shaw shook his head, and Dr. Finch continued. “Of course, I tried to convince Mayhew to come out of hiding, but she would have none of it. She said she’d changed her appearance and taken several precautions so her father would never find her. She was serious when she told me if anything ever happened to her, the police should find out where her father was when she died. She feared he would track her down and . . . well, she was blunt about it. ‘He’d do away with me if he could,’ she’d said. She thought once she was gone, her father would release a ‘newly discovered’ letter or statement from her—forged, of course—in which she recanted her earlier statements about the pixies, so he could draw the psychic seekers back to Pikenwillow House.”
Anna shook her head. “And so she wore a mask, masqueraded as a man, and lived a lonely life here in Hadsworth.”
Dr. Finch sipped from his glass. “I asked her if she was lonely, and she said no, that she was a ‘solitary soul,’ as she called it. She said she liked living in the cottage, writing her books, and rambling about the countryside in the evening. She told me she was happy, and I believed her.”
We were all silent for a few moments, and then Dr. Finch said, “Mayhew didn’t think her father would try to release any new statement recanting her previous debunking of the pixie story unless he was absolutely sure she was dead. While she was alive, she could always counter any statement he made.” He gestured to the envelope with his glass. “Along with the newspaper article, she also sent a sealed letter with the request that I give it to a specific newspaper reporter if she died unexpectedly. I’d give it to you, Colonel, but I made a promise to her. I intend to keep it.”
“Quite.” Shaw ran a finger over his narrow mustache. “But perhaps you could delay until we’ve confirmed the whereabouts of her father.”
“That’s reasonable.”
Shaw looked at me. “And I would appreciate the same courtesy from Hightower Books. Please keep the information about Mayhew’s true identity secret until the investigation is complete.”
As Dr. Finch said, it was a reasonable request, and I agreed to it. Shaw stood and put the envelope under his arm. “I’ll take care of this.”
Dr. Finch braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “I’ll come down to give a formal statement.”
Shaw consulted his pocket watch. “Time enough for that later. I’d rather focus on finding Mr. May at the moment. Come down to the police station tomorrow morning.”
Shaw waved off the offer to be escorted out of the house through the drawing room, saying he would leave by the path that ran between the house and the surgery.
I rose and held the manuscript box to my chest. Anna hadn’t mentioned the manuscript, so I’d stayed silent, but I did need to tell the police officials about what I’d seen in Mayhew’s cottage. After hearing what she’d been through, I was surer than ever that I’d made the right decision to confess about my snooping. I just hoped the police wouldn’t want to keep the manuscript, because I was determined not to give it up. It wasn’t relate
d to Mr. May at all, and I’d fight to make sure I could send it to Hightower Books. “I should go as well. I must get back to Blackburn Hall.” I turned to Dr. Finch. “Thank you for letting me hear what happened.”
Dr. Finch said, “Hightower Books should know . . . eventually. You can give them the full story once Shaw—or whoever is in charge—clears you to do so. They’ll have a bit of interest, I should imagine. Mayhew’s death will make all the papers, I’m sure.” He nodded to the box I held. “His last novel will be a sensation.”
“I’m sure Hightower Books will want to get it out as soon as they can.” They’d have to make the most of it, considering there wouldn’t be any more books from R. W. May. I patted the box and said to Anna, “Thank you for giving it to me. I’ll take good care of it.”
She jumped a bit at my words. “Sorry. Woolgathering.”
“Thank you for entrusting me with the book. I’ll make sure it gets to the publisher.”
“Good.” She glanced at the typewriter then back to me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. That’s what Mayhew—or Veronica, I guess I could say now—would have wanted.”
Anna moved back to the table with the typewriter as I walked down the same path Shaw had taken. I didn’t hear the sound of the typewriter and glanced back before I turned in front of the house. Anna sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the typewriter.
Poor thing. Her biggest source of income was gone—a fact that paled in comparison to a death, but I knew exactly how it felt to have work dry up like a rain puddle that evaporates when the sun comes out after a storm. I made a mental note to speak to Mr. Hightower about Anna and sing her praises. She’d saved Mayhew’s last book. Surely the publisher could send her a bonus . . . or perhaps find some work for her. I’d drop that idea into Mr. Hightower’s ear.
Colonel Shaw was several steps ahead of me down the lane. I quickened my steps. “Colonel Shaw, may I have a word?”
“Certainly.” He paused and waited for me to catch up on the quiet stretch of the lane before it reached High Street.
“I have a confession to make.”
He wheeled and looked at me. “A confession?”
“Perhaps that was the wrong word to use in this situation. I have something to tell you. It’s rather embarrassing. I stopped by the police station this morning to speak to Inspector Calder, but he was away. I think I should let you know now. Mr. Hightower sent me to Hadsworth to look for Mayhew and this manuscript.” I tapped the box, then explained about Mayhew’s arrangement with the solicitor and how the manuscript hadn’t arrived. “So when Anna mentioned Mayhew lived in East Bank Cottage, I went there and had a look around myself.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Shaw began to stroll again.
“Inside.”
Shaw stopped and looked at me. “You broke into the cottage?”
“No, of course not. I found a key. It’s above the window frame on the right-hand side of the front door. I looked around inside and several things stood out to me.” I described the wilted flowers, the open book on the chair, the bread in the kitchen. “In short, it didn’t look as if someone had prepared for a trip.”
We reached the main road and turned onto it. “Perhaps you could accompany me to the police station now and make a statement?”
So I wasn’t to be given the same courtesy Dr. Finch received of being asked to come in the next morning. I couldn’t blame the colonel. He didn’t know me at all. “Certainly.” I followed him across the green to the little building that housed the police station.
Chapter Ten
My second visit to the police station took less than a quarter of an hour, and the whole thing was handled in a matter-of-fact way. I recounted my visit to the cottage, and Shaw had a constable type it up. Shaw handed the statement to me along with a pen. I read over it and signed my name. How silly I’d been to agonize over telling the police what I’d done. They obviously felt my snooping was a small matter, barely worth their time. If Shaw said he wanted to keep the manuscript as evidence, I was poised to point out that it was Anna’s property, not Mayhew’s, but Shaw didn’t bring it up.
I stood, and Shaw picked up the statement from the desk. “I’ll hand this off to the detective inspector from Scotland Yard when he arrives. He may have more questions for you.”
The weight of worry descended onto my shoulders again. “Scotland Yard will be taking over the case?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I thought you were going to find out where Mr. May was when Mayhew died.”
“That’s beyond the scope of our abilities here in Hadsworth. Definitely something for the Yard.”
“I see.” Shaw had merely been going through the motions, collecting information from me, but he’d toss the case into someone else’s lap soon—that’s why he hadn’t had any probing questions for me.
I trooped back across the green. I’d probably have to tell about snooping around East Bank Cottage again to the detective inspector from Scotland Yard. I wrinkled my nose. I should have kept quiet, but my conscience got the better of me. It was quite inconvenient to be a vicar’s daughter at times.
I left the village and paced along the tall hedge that lined the road. I crossed the bridge and used a brisk pace to work through my worry. I shifted the cardboard box with Mayhew’s manuscript to the crook of my other arm. Huffing along, I decided telling the story again would be embarrassing, but I’d get through it. Time enough to worry about that later. I had other things to focus on right now.
I didn’t want to announce my return from the village, so I walked around to the back garden and entered Blackburn Hall through the open French doors into the drawing room. The dark paneled entry hall was silent and empty. I settled into the chair beside the telephone table and asked to be connected to Hightower Books in London. I admired the hefty board and batten paneling on the wall under the stairs as I listened to a series of clicks and long silences.
When I was finally connected, I said, “Mr. Hightower, this is Olive Belgrave. I have some good news as well as some distressing news.”
“Better let me have the bad news straightaway.”
“Very well. Mayhew’s body was found this morning by the river.”
“Good heavens. What happened?”
“At this point, no one’s sure. Serena Shires, Lady Holt’s sister, saw Mayhew on Wednesday morning, and he was found not far from there wearing the same clothes, so it must have happened sometime Wednesday morning.”
“I knew something was wrong. I hate to be proven right, but I was sure Mayhew wouldn’t miss his deadline. To think that he’s been dead that long. Tragic. Just tragic.” A long sigh came over the line.
“Yes, it is.” I thought of East Bank Cottage with its reading glasses and sad wilted flowers. Mr. Hightower was the only person who’d shown even a trace of grief for Mayhew.
Mr. Hightower’s voice brought me back to the present. “Did you say you have some good news?”
“Yes. Mayhew used a local woman as a typist, and she made carbon copies, which she kept, of the manuscript pages of Murder on the Ninth Green. I have it here with me. ”
Mr. Hightower’s voice perked up. “Excellent.”
“I promised I’d hand it to you directly. I can leave now and be in London by this evening.”
“No need. I’m sending Leland—Mr. Busby—down with a contract for Lady Holt to sign.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I had a lengthy conversation with Lady Holt this afternoon. We’ve had some changes in next year’s publishing calendar—an unexpected opening. Lady Holt’s book will add a certain cachet to our roster of upcoming publications. So you don’t have to hurry back. Give the manuscript to Leland.”
I didn’t want to break my promise to Anna. “It’s too bad Mr. Busby has to make a special trip. It’s not a problem for me to run up to town and drop the manuscript with you, then return with the contract for Lady Holt.”
“I leave for Edinburgh shortly. It’s no trou
ble at all. Leland planned to go to Hadsworth later this week anyway. He usually goes down to Kent on Friday to play golf. This will work out better. He’ll be able to handle any issues Lady Holt has with the contract.”
“I’m sure she’ll have plenty of questions and requests.”
“Been like that, has it?”
I glanced around the entry hall to make sure it was still empty. “Lady Holt is extremely thorough.”
“Glad I’m sending Leland, then.”
“I did promise to personally hand the manuscript to you. Anna—she’s the typist—seemed a bit reluctant to give it up, and I assured her I’d give it to you directly.”
“Let her know it went to my second-in-command. I trust Mr. Busby implicitly. Fine chap. Hightower Books can sort out a bonus or some other sign of our appreciation to . . . um . . . what was the name?”
“Anna Finch. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” If Mr. Hightower wanted Mr. Busby to have the manuscript first, I couldn’t argue with him. It was his company, and he made the decisions. I’d just have to tell Anna it was what Mr. Hightower wanted. “Anna was also interested to know if there were any typist jobs available through Hightower Books. Just passing that along, so you know. She’s good at what she does.”
Or at least from what I’d heard when I visited her, it sounded as if she was a speedy typist. I plucked the string around the box, untied it, and lifted the lid. A quick peek showed a pristine sheet of paper with the title centered over the name R. W. May. The pages fit snugly into the box, and I couldn’t flip through them easily with one hand. I replaced the lid. I’d have a look at the manuscript before I handed it off to Leland to make sure it was all in order.
“I’ll pass her name along to the appropriate person,” Mr. Hightower said. “Well, Miss Belgrave, thank you for your work on this.”
Mr. Hightower was wrapping up, so I said quickly, “There’s one more thing you should be aware of in regard to Mayhew’s death.”